


Prairie Sabatia

by heliopaus



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Drabble Collection, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 18:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10882119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliopaus/pseuds/heliopaus
Summary: Kansas, 1947. Your choices have consequences, whether they were made with your boots in the sand or while leaning against the front porch.





	1. Chapter 1

A sharp crack of thunder rattled just about every window in town, from the towering stained glass at First Baptist to the lone fuel station on the dusty outskirts. It didn’t seem to phase anyone, not with the hardy sort of folk you’d find only in the Midwest.

Brendon had no intentions of retreating back into the house, even as fat drops of rain soaked into his linen shirt, drawing goosebumps against his arms. Watching the wall of storm clouds push back against the spring sky was a peaceful way to pass the afternoon; particularly, when the wife was on the phone with her mother back East. Between the two of them, they could wake the dead. He’d rather listen to the thunder.

There was a line of laundry still hanging between two posts, and a lanky man at the edge of his porch with a cigarette pinned between bony fingers. He watched as the rain kicked dust up against the clothes, but made no move to save any of it.

Brendon could remember the ceremony that sent this man off, along with a dozen other young faces from around the country. As city councilman, he’d said a word or two at the podium. Something meaningful, of course. Stir the hearts of the parents. He hadn’t remembered Ben, though. Not until after America had flexed her atomic might and shepherded their ‘boys’ home. Not until the dark browed veteran had moved into the home next to them without so much as an introduction. That had come second hand from one of the neighbors.

And then he remembered.

Someone had to say something. A dozen foot steps took him over the property line, past a neglected garden. Maybe not about the laundry. Maybe something else.

He had to speak up to be heard over the small assortment of wind chimes hanging from the eaves; none of them pretty to look at, but they still made plenty of racket.

“Where’s your bunting?”

It probably wasn’t fair to ask, but it was hard to miss the one porch that wasn’t swathed in the traditional patriotic splendor. The fourth was right around the corner, after all.

Ben had jumped, unmistakably startled out of some reverie of his. The only answer he had for Brendon was the slam of a screen door.


	2. Chapter 2

Dusty and sweltering, there was no real poetic way to describe August. The mercury encased in that old thermometer crept skywards towards the roof of the porch it’d been nailed to, helpfully offering a triple digit explanation for the sweat that dripped down the back of Bryn Phasma’s neck. Even the good Reverend had undone the top few buttons of his gingham shirt while he watched Ben load feed into the back of his Chevy, trying in vain to find some kind of relief. 

Walker had already circled the truck a dozen times, his paw prints outnumbering the human tracks in the driveway. A sharp whistle sent him bounding back up the steps. “You just can’t be underfoot like that, you know.” The dog didn’t even pay her any mind, focused on watching the customer haul himself back up into the truck, waiting until the rusting old thing had rumbled away to shoot off of the porch. 

Damn thing had always liked Ben more. 

Not that it’d ever been Bryn’s dog in the first place. Her husband had been the one to bring it home after finding the litter just outside of a department store in Wichita. The rest of the pups had gone to neighbors and friends, but this one had stayed, creatively named after the business itself. Like this feed store, the dog had been left abruptly left in her care after a mortar had cracked his head open on some Sicilian beach.

And despite all of it, she didn’t mind too much. It kept her busy, and god only knew that’s what they both needed now. 

“He asked how come neither of us are ever at services.” Dust puffed up from Ben’s shoes as he joined her, tugging off his worn gloves. The thing was the Reverend asked that every time he showed to pick up the feed for his wife’s brood of chickens.

“I’m beginning to wonder if they even have chickens, or if he’s just trying to convert the last two holdouts in Coldwater.” 

Ben didn’t laugh. She looked over to catch him focused on fixing Walker’s ear, the one that had a tendency to fold over on itself. Bryn had never been prone to sentimentalism, but something grabbed at her, and the words erupted before her common sense caught up.  
“If you want to take him home, I’m sure he’d hop right in with you.” 

The regret was immediate for both. Ben was soon on his feet, flushed right up to his ears in embarrassment, probably over being offered her dead man’s dog. Whatever it was, he was quick to mention that he’d forgotten to sharpen the hay hooks.

Oblivious to all of this, and only after pausing to sniff at a suspect dandelion, Walker trotted off after the man. Now abandoned, Mrs. Phasma decided this would be a great time to revisit the smuggled beers in the ice box, all the while chalking up one more time her big mouth had sent Ben storming for the barn.


	3. Chapter 3

His head already heavy with the smell of tobacco and rye, Brendon didn’t even try to hide the way he drank in the sight of Ben standing in that crooked, narrow doorway. He’d had gotten his hair cut, hadn’t he? The bar rippled in response to the newcomer, necks craning to see if it was anything worth greeting. 

He could feel Ben’s gaze on him, but it didn’t last long. The Marine shouldered past the local mechanic to get back out the door before anyone managed to even wave, leaving behind a wake of confused faces. 

“Strange guy, he’s-”  

“He’s been strange ever since he came back from the Pacific,” Brendon interjected, not allowing the bartender another word. “Why don’t you do your job, instead of gossiping?” The low rumble of his empty glass against the counter top punctuated the question. 

The mechanic, now settled at Hux’s elbow, just had to wonder what’d become of that charming councilman who had enjoyed 1943′s landslide victory.


	4. Chapter 4

Ben’s kitchen had become a private sanctuary. The scuffed linoleum almost looked clean in the morning light, made hazy by the cigarette dropping from Brendon’s lips. A mug was cradled in his hands, eyes heavily lidded, leaning against the doorway.  
He should have been at work an hour ago.

Dishes clattered against each other. Ben was all elbows as he tried to scrub at a stubborn spot on the pan, one that wouldn’t seem to give no matter how much borax he poured on it. The hot water had turned his skin a brilliant shade of scarlet, and even from here he could see the tendons in Ben’s hands flexing as he scrubbed in vain.

“Should have gotten a wife for these kinds of things.” These words rode upon an exhale of smoke.

He’d never seen Ben smile that that before. A quirk at the corner of his lips, it wasn’t quite a commitment to the notion.


	5. Chapter 5

He was alone, but that was no excuse for trembling hands.

The more Ben ignored it, the worse it got. He didn’t remember the exact moment when he dropped to the floor, shoulders propped haphazardly against the window sill.

It must have been close to sun down. He could feel the warmth of it spread against the back of his head, but his chest only felt tight and cold. Fingers caked in mud rubbed against his jeans in a distracted and semi-frantic attempt to wipe them off. The little apricot tree never ended up replanted, lying sideways in the dirt at the edge of his property. Another thunderstorm had swept across the prairie while he’d worked, bringing warm rain, and air so thick that breathing felt something like swallowing.

The thunder didn’t rattle him, it was the god damn mud.

Ben hefted himself onto his knees, enough so that he could reach blindly for the night stand. He hadn’t even remembered the room going dark, but it was now he realized, as his fingers curled around metal. The dog tags were pulled out from their hiding place, and without even closing the door he slumped back against the side of the stand. It rocked precariously in response, but he wasn’t paying attention.

He’d hate himself later for touching them with his dirty hands, but for now the only thing on his mind was the imprinted name under his fingers. Dameron. Dameron and the way he died in the sand and the mud, alone and choking on his own blood.

And these hands hadn’t done a god damn thing to help him in those last few moments. These hands would never deal a round of cards between them, or help open those cans of peaches that the sergeant had always struggled with, or even just touch his knee.  
A shudder racked his body, the implications dangerous.


	6. Chapter 6

He’d never had the pleasure of waking up with mud in his mouth. Brendon’s tongue ran silt against his teeth, while his mind tried to piece together what had left him sprawled in the grass.

From here, he could see the scuffed foundation in the glow cast by a porch light. Ben’s house, not even ten feet away.

Ben, who’s pale wrists had peeked out from beneath the cuff of his sleeve as he sorted through his mail, standing at the end of his drive way. Those wrists had been on Hux’s mind all night, through dinner, and the glass of scotch that followed.

Ben, who Brendon had confronted long after he had said good night to the wife. Who’s home he had shouldered into, who’s wrists he had pinned against the table, flush against each other, as he slid his necktie around them.

He hadn’t even had the chance to cinch the fabric before those hands has curled into bony fists.

Patches of moonlight played against the grass, as the hot summer wind moved through the oaks. By the time Brendon was unsteadily on his feet, hiking up the steps of his own porch, he realized he had no idea where his tie was.


End file.
